


Glitters the morning star

by Starrie_Wolf



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Creative reinterpretations of canon, FMA was the story about immortality, Fullmetal Alchemist Fandom Challenge, Gen, Inspired by Art, Promised Day, The Philosopher's Stone was famed for two things: immortality and gold, This is the story about gold, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-08-30 09:38:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8528140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starrie_Wolf/pseuds/Starrie_Wolf
Summary: They said, once upon a time, the Great Desert had been a flourishing oasis. They said, once upon a time, there was a race of people with sun-blessed eyes and hair of spun gold, who could summon miracles with but a mere clasp of their palms as though in prayer.

  Until one day, the dragons came.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Koraki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koraki/gifts).



> A loosely Holy Roman Empire (the prelude to Nazi Germany i.e. FMA)-inspired semi-medieval full-flight fantasy dressed up as a Sword and Sorcery. Many liberties have been taken with history.
> 
> Written for the beautiful art by Koraki, which can be [found here](http://fmafandomchallenge.tumblr.com/post/154312902251/wls-arts-at-long-last-heres-my-first-wave).
> 
> Warning for the aftermath of Hughes' (non-graphic) death. Not tagged as Major Character Death because this was a flashback from Riza's PoV and he never actually appeared.

_When skies weep tears of crimson shade_

_And cursèd beasts kingdoms invade_

_A darkness most foul blights the land_

_Aflame fell wings herald the end_

* * *

It should’ve been some tasteless joke, the kind bandied about at the tavern table, Havoc three sheets to the wind and the rest of them not much better, the innkeeper hovering out of the corner of her eye, weighing the benefit of tossing them all out on their rears so that he could close shop against the possibility that one of them might draw a sword on him.

Dragons.

Mythical beasts straight out of her childhood fairy tales, back when her mother was still alive, back when her father didn’t shut himself in his workshop all day.

Riza wanted to laugh, but one look at Roy’s face held her back.

He didn’t look like he was joking, and Riza had, indeed, known Lieutenant-Marshal Roy Mustang long enough to be sure when he _was_ joking (which was most of the time).

“They called themselves the Four Dragons of the Apocalypse,” Roy was telling the rest quietly when the bright-white stun of disbelief finally cleared from her mind. He ticked them off on his fingers. “Pride, Sloth, Envy, and Lust.”

Dragons. That would explain so much.

Riza could still vividly remember lifting up the flap to the command tent the morning after Hughes’ death to see Roy slumped over the desk, like a marionette with its strings cut. She’d hurried around the table, shouting his name, and only when he’d blearily raised his head did she notice the well-worn scrap of parchment he’d been boring a hole through with his eyes, his fists clenched so tight they were a stark washed-out white against the dark wood.

The same piece of enchanted parchment that Hughes would have kept on his person at all times.

 _– all the way to the top_ , it took her a few moments to decipher, and that was because the script was so shaky she could barely make out the words, so different from Hughes’ usual precise hand. Perhaps more ominous was the dark splatters all over the rest of the parchment, a shade far too dark, too brown to be merely spilled ink.

This was the man who could scribble reports while hunched in a trench behind enemy lines and have them turn out as though he had the liberty of a sturdy desk and a page to fetch him fresh quill and ink.

_Be care –_

And nothing. The message was cut off abruptly there, the final brushstroke trailing off over the edge of the parchment, like the parchment had been forcibly ripped away before Hughes could finish.

“When was this?”

Roy blinked slowly at her. “Seven bells past moonrise,” he finally answered, just when she was about to turn away, to call for someone to bring their fastest messenger hawk, even though it must be a futile effort by now.

It was not yet a bell after sunrise, which made it about five bells prior.

Riza lived in a pragmatic world, and yet there was the briefest moment when she wondered if Hughes mightn’t be still alive, the parchment wrenched out of his grasp.

Then she saw the bottom half of the parchment, which was covered in Roy’s scribbles, the letters hastily shaped and smudged where excess ink had dripped or the quill nib snapped.

_Hughes. Hughes, answer me. Hughes, gods damn it, I –_

She turned her eyes away before she could see any more, but the glimpse was enough. For whatever reason, none of the messages had been sent, which could only mean one thing:

It no longer had a twin to send to.

Whoever who’d discovered Hughes, they’d been some sort of powerful alchemist, one capable of destroying Roy’s own protective charms on the parchment. That was not the sort of person who would be inclined to leave a witness alive.

Dragons.

_And one of them had killed Hughes._

Oh, whoever who’d spoken to Roy probably hadn’t come out and _said_ as much, but what else could it have been?

Riza could have laughed. Roy might be the Flame Alchemist, but his craft would be considered mere party tricks next to the breath of a dragon, said to be capable of razing entire fields in the blink of an eye, leaving nothing but scorched, _curs_ _èd_ , earth in its wake.

Perhaps the legends of how the Great Desert to the east had originated had a grain of truth to them after all. Beside her, Falman seemed to be already mentally going through the aisles in the royal libraries, deciding which might contain the tomes most useful to them.

Roy held up a hand before anyone could speak up. “I’ve already given the task of researching any and all relevant myths to the Elric brothers,” he said, and she could almost see Falman wilt in disappointment out of the corner of her eye. “As a State Alchemist, Fullmetal has far less restricted access than you do, and a far more thorough understanding of the arcane.”

And it would keep him off the battlefields, away from the bloodshed, for just a little longer.

Riza understood that sentiment all too well.

* * *

They said, once upon a time, the Great Desert had been a flourishing oasis. And out of that oasis had risen the mighty empire of Xerxes, whose reach at its height had stretched all the way from the shores of the Cretan Sea to the snow-capped mountains of what was now the Kingdom of Drachma. Historians named that era the Golden Age, after the now-extinct race of Xerxians, who were said to possess ‘sun-blessed eyes and crowns of spun gold’.

What had made the Xerxians so powerful was not their sheer numbers, nor their material wealth, though they had both in spades; but their utterly peerless skill with alchemy. Foreign dignitaries far and wide would visit the capital of Xerxes, laden with precious goods, in the hope of seeking an audience with the king. For the Royal House of Xerxes was famed across the Seven Seas for their mastery of the arcane arts; any Xerxian aristocrat could call down the rains in the driest of droughts, but only a royal prince could heal even the most grievously wounded and – some whispered – even slow the passage of time itself, all with but a simple clap of his hands.

To lend credence to that myth, the royal crest of Xerxes had been two palms touching, fingers pointed towards the skies.

How much of that was exaggeration, and how much truth, Riza couldn’t say. The Xerxian empire certainly did exist, and enough artefacts had been excavated for archaeologists to begin piecing together the sheer breadth of its influence – anything and everything from prehistoric Xing porcelain to Cretan shell-coin had previously been found, but large-scale excavation was difficult in the desert and King Bradley, unlike some of his predecessors, had no interest in civilisations long past.

But what everyone knew – what the bards sang about at banquets, their clever fingers dancing across their lutes; what the travelling scholars told when pressed for a story, to crowds of mesmerised children – was the story of how Xerxes fell.

The Xerxians had fancied themselves invincible, and perhaps they had been, but only in the world of mortals. The last King of Xerxes had attempted to resurrect his wife, who was recently deceased in childbirth, and in his blind arrogance trespassed upon the domain of the gods.

For the next day, the dragons came.

Swooping in on wings thrice as long as a man was tall, they made short work of the wall guards, their claws ripping through thick slabs of stone as though they were mere baked clay.

The stories hadn’t been clear how many dragons there’d been. Some said there were four; others five; yet others seven. Still others said, just the one, but it’d been so big, the watchers had fancied the skies eclipsed by leathery wings.

However many there had been, or even any at all, one thing was clear: the Xerxian Empire became buried by the sands of time, and in its place rose two distinct kingdoms, one on each side of the Great Desert: the Kingdom of Xing to the East, and the Kingdom of Amestris to the West.

The ruins of Xerxes still stood to this day, some said as a testament to their craftsmanship, some said as a warning to future alchemists.

It had been Riza’s favourite bedtime story as a child. It was chilling to realise it was, apparently, not as fictional as she’d previously thought.

Great Deities, _dragons_.

How was she, with her paltry mail and blade, supposed to defeat one of _those_?

Perhaps Roy might have a chance, infinitesimal as it seemed. Perhaps his mastery of the flames could turn the breath of a dragon upon itself, but what then? If one was to believe the ballads, the hide was impenetrable even to the sharpest of blades, protected not only by natural toughness but by _magic_. To hope that a dragon could be harmed by its own fire was akin to wishing that King Bradley would bequeath his kingdom to Roy tomorrow – unrealistic and improbable.

Riza did not live for probabilities.

It had been three days Alphonse’s last message, three days since he and his brother had vanished into the bowels of the Great Library in Central. Riza lifted up the blade she’d been sharpening while lost in her thoughts, and gave a sharp nod of satisfaction at the keen edge.

Whatever she could do, had already been done. The rest was up to them.

* * *

She could hear their next visitor long before their actual appearance, the distinct uneven tap-thunk of footsteps on firmly-packed earth its very own herald.

Roy did not sigh. He did, however, put his quill down and the field report he'd been scanning through aside, just as Edward came bursting through the tent flaps like a localised sandstorm, followed slightly more sedately by his brother.

"So," Edward said. He folded his arms. He wasn’t grinning, which could mean anything from _he didn’t find anything_ to _he didn’t find anything good_. Judging from the way Alphonse was surreptitiously edging towards the soundproofing alchemy circle stitched onto the stiff tent fabric, Riza doubted it was the former.

"So," Roy echoed. His eyes didn’t flicker to Alphonse, but then, a giant moving suit of armour was hardly the definition of _subtle_.

They could probably do that all day, but frankly Riza would like to begin the necessary battle preparations at a decent hour, before the soldiers were so deep in their cups they probably wouldn't remember a word she said.

She cut in the moment Alphonse brushed against the circle, activating the soundproof barrier with a single tap of his metal finger.

"What did you find out, Edward-kun?"

“Oh, this and that,” Edward said, rather airily, waving a hand in the air. “Most of the books in the Great Library were pretty useless, actually, the ‘facts’ either contradicting each other or outright wrong. It’s like somebody didn’t want people to be able to find anything about dragons, fancy that.”

“ _Brother_.”

Edward sighed. “I’m getting there, Al.” He scratched his head with one hand, eyes darting about the tent, though Riza didn’t know what he was expecting to find.

“Right. So, we tracked down a different source, found some better books, and also ran into someone who might be able to help with our fire lizard pestilence.”

He stopped.

“And?” Roy drawled, in that tone that she knew from experience meant his infinite patience was running out.

“And we brought him along,” Alphonse hastily added, while Edward huffed and folded his arms across his chest.

Breda, being the closest to the exit, went over and lifted the tent flap up.

The man waiting outside was tall, tall enough that he had to stoop to get through. Riza squinted, but she couldn’t make out his features, backlit by the sun as he was. He turned to thank Breda, sealing the tent back up with his index finger.

So, another alchemist, then.

At a pointed jab from Alphonse, Edward unfolded his arms with another huff and took a deep breath much like a herald would, though his voice did not carry.

“I present to you the Spirit Alchemist, His August Highness Van Hohenheim the Sixth, of the Ancient and Imperial House of Xerxes, and the rightful heir to the Lost Empire.”

His mouth twisted a little, but it wasn’t until the man turned around that Riza understood, almost before Edward sighed and very grudgingly tacked on,

“My father.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Truth behind the fall of Xerxes.

There was a flurry of activity at that pronouncement, exclamations all around and Roy almost knocking his chair over in his haste, as though Van Hohenheim was going to vanish if he didn’t get over there right _at that moment_.

“The _Spirit_ Alchemist?” he demanded, coming around the table, and Riza winced at the way he didn’t quite manage to soften his tone into something more approachable.

“I didn’t mean alcohol, bastard,” Edward interjected with a scoff before Roy could continue. “Spirits, as in, _souls_.”

“It pops up now and then in the bloodline,” Van Hohenheim said, evidently taking his cue from Roy despite the lack of an introduction, his tone almost apologetic. Riza eyed him critically, but he didn’t look much like the prince of any sort of empire – save for, of course, the golden hair and eyes, exactly as the myths described.

He also didn’t sound much like Edward did – though to be fair, even _Alphonse_ didn’t sound much like Edward did, a certain blend of acute intelligence carefully hidden beneath a veneer of belligerence that Riza was beginning to gather was unique rather than a family trait, an intelligence Roy clearly respected, given that he had yet to court-martial Edward for insubordination.

Riza certainly wasn’t going to complain about having someone else around to take Roy down a few pegs, especially since it was clear after a while that Edward’s hostility was borne from a general distrust of any and all authority figures, rather than genuine malice.

Instead of waiting for an introduction that was clearly never going to happen, Roy took matters into his own hands. “My name is Roy Mustang, the Lieutenant Field Marshal of East Command.”

“I’ve heard about you,” Van Hohenheim said, rather neutrally, and Roy grimaced very slightly.

It hit Riza a moment later, then. If Van Hohenheim’s primary source was _the dead_ , like what Edward implied, they could hardly have anything flattering to say.

Edward coughed pointedly from where he was standing next to the tent entrance, breaking the decidedly confrontational air. For once, his glares weren’t directed at Roy.

Mostly.

“Tell them about the dragons, Father,” Alphonse interjected softly. “Tell them about the Calamity you’ve been working to prevent.”

Van Hohenheim’s face was unreadable, though Riza could just barely detect the slightest hint of sorrow in the corners of his eyes. “It’s going to take a while,” he warned.

At a tilt of Roy’s head, Falman went for the discarded quill and parchment, while Riza mentally scanned all their duties for the rest of the day. Field Marshal Grumman, she decided, could handle the grunt work for a day.

“We’ve got the time.”

* * *

I’m sure all of you have heard about the fall of Xerxes before, so I won’t prevaricate. The bare bones of the legends are true – the last Emperor did resurrect his deceased wife, and there were dragons, though the two were not necessarily as closely linked as the myths would suggest. Much of what I know comes from the few survivors of Xerxes’ fall, so some of our knowledge is guesswork rather than fact – our best guess is, dragonfire had some kind of dissolution effect that weakened whatever that bound souls to this land, since I was never able to find anyone who’d actually died to a dragon, and there had to have been thousands of them.

There were seven dragons in total: Gluttony, Greed, Pride, Sloth, Envy, Lust and Wrath. But what drove their appearance wasn’t the resurrection of the queen; indeed, there was a gap of several years between their arrival and her second life, and she’s reasonably certain that it wasn’t to punish her husband for achieving the impossible or anything like that.

Yes, yes I spoke to her, and her son too, the babe she once died to bring into this world. And before you ask, she does know the details of the resurrection circle, but she believes it’s far better for that knowledge to remain lost forever.

As I mentioned, spirit alchemy is a recurrent ability in the Xerxian royal bloodline, and so none of the Xerxians were very surprised when I was able to contact them. In me it manifested as an ability to commune with the undeparted souls of the dead, but I suspect it may have taken a different form in my sons.

I’m afraid it’s not learnable, Marshal Mustang, as it requires both the ability to design your own circles on the fly and the predilection towards spirits our bloodline offers, and while the former _could_ be taught the latter is rather a moot point. I believe nowadays the Amestrians and Xingese use a bastardised form of alchemy involving pre-sketched circles?

But back to the dragons. The last prince believes, and his mother agrees, that the dragons came because of a certain ingredient used during the resurrection ritual.

It is known as the Philosopher’s Stone.

I won’t be surprised if you’ve never heard of it – oh, you have? The Stone of Immortality – well, I suppose, that could be one name for it, though it doesn’t confer true immortality so much as – but I digress. Dragons have not much use for immortality, of course, but they _are_ interested in another aspect of the Stone.

Quite by accident, the emperor discovered that it has the ability to transmute any base metal into pure gold. And what dragons love, above all, is to amass hoards of gold. Nobody’s entirely certain as to why, but they’re sure this was what brought them.

Realising immediately what he had in his possession, the emperor kept the existence of the Stone a closely-guarded secret none but his wife and child knew. Though it’s likely as not because anyone else who knew about it was already dead – something to do with the creation of the Stone itself, I see from your faces that you know exactly what I mean. But what’s important is that one year, a terrible famine struck the capital of Xerxes. Locusts, as I understood it, compounded by an early frost that killed half the seedlings before they could mature. With no other recourse, the emperor took out his Stone and filled his coffers, to barter for food with nearby kingdoms.

That was probably what attracted the dragons’ attraction, for it was scarcely several moons before their terrible shrieks were heard over the city, razing the streets with walls of flame so tall they fancied these reached the skies.

Such monstrosities as never been seen they were, I was told. Scaly leathery wings that could sweep battalions off their feet, wicked claws that tore through flesh and stone alike with no discrimination, and of course the terrible, terrible flames that no amount of water could douse.

And tried, they did. The first thing the priests did was to summon enough rain to flood a town, but the fires refused to go out. Nor did smothering it, or burning the fields around it have any use – I don’t know what this fire used as fuel, but it wasn’t what normal fires used, that was certain. It _clung_ and _held on_ – to bedrock, to clothing, to anything it touched.

The only thing that was known to work was to pull out all the oxygen in the surroundings, but that had its own risks. Not only were few capable of achieving this difficult feat in the first place, but it would asphyxiate all the civilians trapped by the flames as well, so it was their last resort. You may want to take note of that, Marshal Mustang. I’ve heard that this is your specialty.

The people fought back, but there was little they could do in the face of such insurmountable odds. Mere metal didn’t work, as I’m sure you’ve heard, nor did conventional alchemy – nothing except battle alchemy, and whatever you’ve heard of the Xerxians, they weren’t a military empire at their core. Fewer than a hundred warriors were trained as combat alchemists, and of those, few had the speed, the versatility to match a dragon.

But hearken, there is some good news. The dragons _can_ be killed. Of the original seven, only four lived, with a fifth so badly wounded it would likely never fly again. I can give you the details of how this came to occur at a later stage, but I must warn you now, therein lies a problem, too. Both dragons were killed by experienced battle alchemists well-versed in the ancient Xerxian form of battle alchemy, and unfortunately there are none left alive who practice this true form of alchemy.

None, says the lost prince, but for his descendants, passed in utmost secrecy from parent to child. It has been twenty-three generations since the fall of Xerxes, and he says every single alchemist with the level of skill you would need to slay a dragon is currently standing right here in this tent.

* * *

There was a long silence as Van Hohenheim finished his recount and drank deeply.

“There are no other survivors from Xerxes who might know this?” Roy had to confirm.

Van Hohenheim shook his head. “True alchemy is a closely-guarded imperial secret only taught to those deemed worthy. Every single battle alchemist perished upon the walls of Xerxes, save for the queen, whom the emperor charged to deliver their young son to safety.”

Roy gave a sharp nod, and Riza had no doubt he’d already come to this conclusion on his own.

“So, by ‘true form of alchemy’,” Falman began, quill stilling, “you mean –”

“I believe you call this ‘clap-alchemy’.”

There was a curse as Falman realised he was dripping ink over the parchment.

Clap-alchemy. After seeing the Elric brothers in action, Riza had no trouble believing that this form of alchemy was originally developed for combat. As the adjutant to the Lieutenant Field Marshal of East Command, she’d seen her fair few of State Alchemists around, and none of them could match the speed either of the Elrics could pull off. Perhaps Roy could, but without his gloves or any ignition source, he would be as much of a sitting duck as any other modern alchemist.

Not to mention the sheer versatility. If half the stories were true, these ancient Xerxian battle alchemists could rain brimstone upon the enemy one moment, heal the wounded in the next moment, and then turn around and rebuild the streets. Riza knew no alchemist alive today capable of this breadth of skills.

No, the one-trick ponies that made up the pool of State Alchemists would be of little aid here. Perhaps Kimblee could – but no, she wasn’t going to rely on a psychopath who might be swayed by the promise of a Philosopher’s Stone for his very own.

For wasn’t that what the dragons had been after, when they founded Amestris? The true reason for all this bloodshed, all the needless wars, the endless conquering? Wasn’t this what Hughes _died_ trying to warn Roy about?

The dragons had somehow discovered the secret to creating more Philosophers’ Stones, and the entire kingdom of Amestris was simply a farm, almost ripe for the harvest.

Four – five dragons, Riza knew better than to discount even a dragon considered crippled. Three battle alchemists at best. The numbers weren’t good.

Roy evidently had something similar on his mind. “You said it could be taught, that it’s not something inherent to the Xerxian bloodline.”

Van Hohenheim fixed Roy with a hard stare, but Roy didn’t get as far as he did by faltering under pressure. He kept his chin raised, his gaze open.

It was perhaps no surprise that Van Hohenheim broke the staring contest first, though not as a concession as Riza first thought. He simply transferred his gaze to Edward instead.

Edward’s lips were pursed, and he didn’t look shocked, or like any of this was news to him. In fact, Riza would bet he and Alphonse had already heard the full story, validated it for themselves, and only _then_ did they deem Van Hohenheim a valuable enough resource to bring him along.

After a moment’s pause, Edward gave the slightest of nods. “He’s an okay alchemist,” he said through gritted teeth, looking like it physically pained him to admit that.

For some reason, the grudging accolade made Roy grin widely, like he’d just gotten a field promotion he wasn’t expecting. Riza didn’t pretend to understand alchemists, for all that she’d spent her entire life growing up with them. She’d known Edward was an exceptional alchemist, of course, because even a civilian could figure that part out, but she hadn’t expected Roy to hold his opinion in such high esteem.

(The last person he’d admired so much had been her father. She usually tried not to think about that.)

“Hmm,” Van Hohenheim said, brows slightly lifting. “Tell me, Marshal Mustang, how much are you willing to sacrifice for this knowledge?” Riza frowned. That phrasing, it almost sounded like a threat, but the tone was all wrong.

She didn’t draw her sword.

Roy blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

It was Alphonse who answered, however, sounding like he was quoting something. “The Truth is cruel, and it takes as much as it gives.” He shrugged, as much as a giant suit of armour could _shrug_ , and added, “It’s like some kind of Equivalent Exchange.”

That phrase, even Riza could understand.

Why couldn’t anything to do with alchemy be _easy_ , for once?

Roy opened his mouth and inhaled, but he took another good look at the Elric brothers, and closed his mouth again. He wet his lips, and tried again. “Do you get to choose your payment?”

“Does it look like we got to _choose_?” interrupted Edward, waving his automail arm. His familiar scowl told everyone how much he detested this conversation, but Riza noted that he wasn’t voicing a single protest.

“It’ll be something you hold the most dear,” Van Hohenheim elaborated. “Sometimes, the payment would be obvious. Sometimes, you won’t know the price you paid until much later.”

He sounded like he was speaking from experience, and Roy must have picked up on that, for there was just the barest hint of hesitation before he asked, “If I may ask, what was _your_ price?”

Van Hohenheim blinked, but there was the barest glint of something that resembled approval in his eyes when he answered, his tone somber. “The chance to see my sons grow up, and to bid my beloved farewell.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally, the Promised Day had come, the day they were going to free Amestris from the dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mildly adapted from Roy's canon battles with Lust and the Dwarf.

_In the darkness hope arises_

_Knights of valour in all guises_

_The bells toll on, the stars reborn_

_Courage shalt herald a new dawn_

* * *

If anyone had asked Riza, she’d honestly have said the hardest part of Roy’s plan should have been convincing Olivier Mira Armstrong to come to his aid.

The plan wouldn’t work without her, he’d said, and she could see why. East Command had no shortage of men, but they were still _humans_. Many of them had relatives or friends in Central Command, and without something more concrete than a fanciful tale about dragons, they were going to question their orders. Roy was charismatic, yes, but Marshal Armstrong inspired loyalty to a truly fearsome degree in her troops, probably the only reason why she was very politely banished to guard the Northern Front. On their own, they weren’t even going to make it to the castle.

But instead, thanks to a series of frankly bizarre events that involved Edward, some _completely necessary and definitely not the least bit over-the-top_ remodelling of the Briggs Fortress, and the appearance of some intruder that nearly took out three of her top men, Olivier had deemed this was sufficient reason to ride to Central to demand answers, an irate Edward tucked under her brother’s arm like a tiny sack of potatoes.

Or so Falman had recounted, anyway, and she was starting to think nothing she had ever learnt about alchemists would ever quite apply to an Elric. Alphonse hadn’t even been at Briggs for the duration of that altercation, which meant that Edward had somehow had an unholy combination of luck and skill to engineer the whole fiasco _on his own_. Really, she should just have been thankful that Drachma hadn’t chosen that moment to invade and add to the whole mess.

She wasn’t going to complain aloud, though, not when whatever Edward had done managed to net them the support of the legendary Battalion of Briggs, led by the Ice Devil herself.

To his credit, the smarmy smile pasted on Roy’s face didn’t so much as waver when Olivier casually tossed the severed head of a dragon right at his head and he had to fumble to catch it. Fuery nearly tripped over himself trying to scramble out of the way of the blood spray, but all Roy did was to quirk an eyebrow, dangle the head by the scruff, and waited patiently for her pronouncement.

Olivier had huffed. “Well, I suppose you’re slightly less useless than my younger brother,” she sneered, looking dearly like she would much rather have skewered Roy than offer him such a compliment.

Roy had promptly whipped a bouquet out of nowhere – so _that_ was why an entire platoon had been tasked to pick hyacinths that morning – and presented it to Olivier with a flourish.

The bouquet went into the nearest torch, but not before Riza caught the tiniest flash of parchment before the flowers landed face-down in the fire. She’d no doubt Olivier had done it exactly that way on purpose, and that she was now privy to all the information they had.

Roy’s handwriting was _really_ cramped. Riza was impressed that Olivier could actually parse all that within the split second she glanced into the bouquet.

* * *

But wars were never as predictable as she sometimes wished they would be.

They were just waiting on Alphonse, who was stuck travelling by civilian carriage when Olivier kicked him out of Briggs, and was thus unavoidably delayed. Edward had spent the entire week vacillating between fretting over Alphonse – _I hope those civilians didn’t give him grief about never taking off his armour_ – and complete confidence that Alphonse was _perfectly_ _fine, why did you even bother asking, Colonel bastard?_

Privately, Riza thought Alphonse was just fine, and probably charming the pants off every civilian merchant whom he was begging a ride from.

The plan was that they would camp just outside Central, the men of East Command and Briggs, until Alphonse could get there. Roy was relying on the not-unreasonable argument that the soldiers of Central Command would lay down their arms once their commanders began turning into dragons, but just in case, he would lead a small specialised task force straight into the castle during the commotion to demand King Bradley’s surrender.

Noon came, and passed.

Roy looked positively disinterested when compared to Edward, but the way his fingers worried at the linked parchment constantly, folding and unfolding it repeatedly, gave away his state of mind. Alphonse’s last message that morning had indicated he was a mere two hours away by horse, and the fact that he really ought to have arrived by noontime wasn’t lost on anybody.

“How would _I_ know!” Edward suddenly shrieked, in response to a question she didn’t hear. “Do you think we’ve got some… some kind of _Elric Brother Telepathy_ or something?”

Riza swung around, intrigued despite herself, as Roy proceeded to ask, “Well, _do_ you?”

She was almost disappointed by Edward’s resounding rejection of that idea.

The tent flap ripped open almost violently, and Riza’s sword came free of its holster, pointing itself at the intruder before her mind had quite caught up with her actions.

Van Hohenheim held his hands up in surrender, eyeing her not quite warily, but he didn’t make any further movements until Riza sheathed her sword again with a quiet huff.

Damn it, she was far too on edge today.

“Well?” demanded Edward, abandoning his snark-fest with Roy. “How’s Al?”

The thing about Elrics, Riza decided, was that they _expected_ miracles to occur, and then went on and engineered those miracles, so you couldn’t even be irritated at them for demanding the impossible in the first place. Since, well, they’d just demonstrated that whatever they wanted was, in fact, _possible_.

“Alphonse has been unavoidably detained,” reported Van Hohenheim, only the faint stress-lines at the corner of his eyes betraying his anxiety. “The dragons found him first.” He tilted his head to the side, as though listening to a voice none of them could hear. “ _A_ dragon found him,” he corrected himself. “The remaining three are yet unaccounted for.”

She could see the flare of unadulterated panic in Edward’s eyes, the yelling he was building himself up to. _Alphonse will be fine_ , she could see it on the tip of everyone's tongue, but no one voiced that sentiment. No one was going to tell Edward that everything will be okay, everything will go exactly as planned – because no one could promise that.

Edward deflated, clenching his jaw.

“Alphonse knows what he’s doing,” reminded Roy gently. Edward turned away from him, but most tellingly he didn’t protest.

For all that they’d planned to divide the dragons amongst the alchemists, it wasn't supposed to happen like this. It was  _never_  supposed to happen like this, Alphonse trapped too far from any sort of aid they could provide, but Riza knew all too well how plans had the tendency to fall apart.

She could still taste the grit of sand at the back of her throat on the bad nights.

Roy cleared his throat, breaking the sombre silence. “We’ll move out now,” he said quietly. “Give the dragons something else to focus on.”

Because the last thing Alphonse needed was  _two_  dragons after him.

* * *

Central Command castle loomed in the distance, as though it was mocking their failure.

Too far.

They were ambushed on the grassy plains to the far east, out of reach of the castle’s archers, but also out of reach of King Bradley and his handpicked royal guards.

Roy’s face was set in a grim mask of determination in the glimpses she could see of him, his flame-bladed rapier flashing like glints of quicksilver in the afternoon sun. His gloves were stark white against the darker tint of his skin, but there was no accompanying click of his fingers, no stench of burnt flesh.

The battle raged on.

An overhead cleave of her Zweihänder bought her a few precious seconds, enough to shift a few steps closer to Roy, enough to check on the rest of the team. As a knight himself, Havoc was the nearest to Roy, with Riza a close second. Breda was steadily making his way through, his lance giving him the extended reach needed to clear his path, but Fuery was trapped behind the lines and Falman was still in the Briggs contingent.

 _Snap_.

There was a ripple of movement as the nearest soldiers recoiled from Roy as though physically struck, and for a moment Riza couldn’t speak, her heart trapped in her throat as she swung around once more, because no, he’d promised, he _wasn’t_ –

Roy was holding a ball of flame on one upturned palm, his face pure carved granite.

“I have no business with any of you,” he declared, loud enough for the closest soldiers to hear. “Let me pass. Leave me to the State Alchemists.”

_Let the monsters handle the monsters._

There were no other combat-oriented State Alchemists in Central, but Riza supposed the average soldier wouldn’t know that.

The soldiers milled around, momentarily hesitant, and in that split second thick walls of earth shot up on either side of Roy, resealing overhead to form a tunnel that led straight to the castle.

Edward’s handiwork, no doubt.

As though he’d expected this to happen, Roy took off at a dead sprint into the tunnel, Havoc hot on his heels. Two more yellow blurs rocketed into the tunnel, but the soldiers were closing in, shaking free of their paralysis.

Spinning around and planting herself firmly at the mouth of the tunnel was one of the hardest things she’d ever done, when every fibre of her being was screaming at her to follow the others.

But she had a duty to perform, both as Roy’s adjutant and as a knight.

Her Zweihänder thudded against the ground like a challenge horn, the tip of her chin resolute as she faced down the growing crowd.

“No one else is getting through.”

* * *

Her back was to the wall, but not literally; no, she still had the space to manoeuvre, to duck a poorly-aimed blow while simultaneously parrying another, all with the assurance that no one could sneak up behind her.

Edward’s tunnel shook with each misdirected hit, a shower of pebbles clattering behind her, but it didn’t cave in despite all expectations.

_Elrics._

Then a lance swept through the gap between two soldiers, knocking them both aside, and Riza tensed for a long moment before Breda’s flaming hair came into view.

“Armstrong stormed the city gates,” he reported tersely without being asked.

Riza nodded, settling her Zweihänder back into a ready position, while Breda went into a crouch behind her, his lance at the ready.

How long had it been since Roy made it through? How long should it take to find the dragons? Had they made it to the throne room – were they battling now?

She swallowed, her grip tightening on her broadsword, but her eyes never wavered from the crowd pressing closer. They’d pulled back when Breda joined her, but it wouldn’t take long for them to find their nerve again. Any moment now, someone was going to charge…

An unholy shriek shredded the building tension, echoing oddly through the tunnel from whence it originated.

Riza didn’t take her eyes off the soldiers, and she suspected neither did Breda, so it was easy to see the flare of confusion, of dawning fear in their eyes. More damning were the wavering swords, tips lowering just a fraction, but enough for her to _hope_.

“We are Amestrians, you and I,” she called, her voice carrying through the ringing silence, and dared to lower her own sword. “There’s no reason for us to fight each other.” A beat, just long enough for them to hear her words, to _think_. “But Central was long overrun by monsters, _real_ monsters, and those are ones we should _all_ be fighting.”

As though it had been planned, another shriek rent the skies, and the soldiers were staggering back this time, weapons clattering forgotten to the ground, mouths agape as they stared at something above the tunnel she was standing in, something she couldn’t see. But Riza didn’t need to see it to know what it was; the giant shadow sweeping across the ground, blotting out the sun told her everything she needed to know.

She drew herself up to her full height. “ _Make way_ ,” she ordered, and the soldiers scarpered before her like petals in the wind.

* * *

The very earth quaked beneath her boots, and Riza had to catch herself against a wall to avoid falling. Her hand scraped against rough stone, but she was heedless of the sting, head turned towards the sound.

Explosions in the castle. That must be one of them, at least.

Riza hurried on.

* * *

She skidded to a halt in a room so glaringly white she thought she’d gone blind for a brief moment, until she caught sight of the imposing pair of doors at the far end. Even someone as unschooled in the arts as she was could appreciate the bright, bold streaks of the mural, visible even at this distance.

How did no one know about this room?

Her eyes swept the room carefully, noting the lofty ceiling and what seemed to be another mural on the floor, but there wasn’t anyone else as far as she could see. Still, she kept a hand on the hilt of her Zweihänder, skirting around the mural on the floor – would be sheer stupidity to fall prey to an alchemy circle – as she made her way to the doors.

“Another visitor?”

Riza whirled around at the sound of a new voice, barely remembering to stay away from the floor decoration.

“How lovely,” laughed the woman in the doorway. “Three visitors in one day!” She strode forwards, carelessly stepping onto the mural on the floor, though Riza didn’t drop her guard. For all she knew, this woman – if she was indeed a human and not a dragon – could be keyed into a bypass, or there was some other form of trigger required to activate the circle.

 _Three_ , Riza noted. Two other than her.

The woman’s lips, painted a garish red, stretched impossibly wide into a grin. “Welcome, Riza the Resolute, to my humble abode. I am Lust, the Guardian of the Treasury.” Her eyes glittered. “And the Gatekeeper to Hell.”

None of that made any sense to Riza, except her name. _Lust_. One of the dragons.

Her hands tightened around the hilt of her sword. “What happened to the other two?”

Lust giggled, a shrill, high-pitched noise that made Riza’s ears hurt. “So eager to join them,” the dragon crooned. “Don’t worry, I’ll send you to the same place as I did your superior right away.”

There was a faint buzzing in her ears, a pervasive white noise drowning out her thoughts.

Your superior.

She couldn’t mean –

But the self-satisfied smirk on her face –

Riza wanted to _wipe it off_ –

The Zweihänder slammed against hide so thick Riza almost dropped it from the shock alone, the vibrations running up the blade until even her _teeth_ ached, if it wasn’t for the tight grip she had on the hilt. She ignored the pain and planted her feet more solidly, putting the full force of her upper body into the next swing, but what would have dismembered any regular human only made Lust laugh, her voice shrill and mocking.

“I see why they call you _the Resolute_ now.” Lust’s grin was full of teeth, and _struck_.

Sheer blind luck was the only thing that saved her, Lust’s movements far too fast for Riza’s eyes to properly track, as wicked sharp claws raked down her blade. Riza’s eyes widened in shock, she couldn’t help it.

 _Dragon_ , she reminded herself sternly, and readied herself for the next blow.

The next few moments told Riza that Lust might not have been very big, but her strength was certainly not restricted by the form she chose to take. It was all she could do to catch the claws – each a scythe in miniature and just as sharp as the finest honed steel – on the flat of her blade, over and over again, her combat boots skidding across the marble floor as she fought to avoid being impaled by claws that could seemingly extend at will.

She couldn’t even spare the strength to draw her boot knife; it was taking all she had to force this stalemate.

“Finished?” Lust giggled, and Riza fought not to clench her jaw in irritation as she was casually batted into a wall like a ragdoll. Tears – whether from the helplessness or pain she couldn’t tell, because –

Roy was _dead_.

“You humans really are foolish, weak, pitiful beings.”

Yes, so _weak_ that she couldn’t even finish the job, not even with the country’s fate on the line, but foolish enough to try, try, _try_ again anyway –

Too late, the whizz of air told her that she’d missed a cue, and even as she dove to the side she knew she’d never make it in time –

The crisp metallic _clang_ of a successful block.

Riza came up and out of her roll; for one wild moment _Roy!_ was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit her lip and forced it down, turning to see a very familiar suit of armour standing protectively in front of her.

“Alphonse,” she croaked, blinking rapidly.

“Are you all right, Lieutenant?”

Riza coughed, her hand closing on the hilt of her sword. “Fine.”

“I’m glad,” Alphonse told her, but there was something odd in the timbre of his voice. Riza forced herself to her feet, and nearly bit a hole through her lip when she finally registered the sight before her.

Alphonse hadn’t blocked Lust’s claws – he’d merely forced it off-target, and sacrificed his entire right arm in the process.

Her mouth went dry. “Alphonse, leave me and run.”

“No.”

Couldn’t he _understand_? There was no way he could perform alchemy with one arm missing. They were both sitting ducks like this, but Riza could at least still hold a sword, hold the dragon off long enough for him to get away, get to somewhere where he could repair his arm. “Run!”

“ _No!_ ”

“Save yourself, at least!” There wouldn’t be any more deaths on her conscience, not while she still breathed.

“I said, no!” Before she could implore him to reconsider once more, he continued, “Seeing people die in front of my eyes – I hate it! I’m tired of it! I’m not going to let anyone die anymore! So I’m going to protect you!”

He settled into a bare-handed stance, the empty elbow socket swinging slowly.

Riza breathed in, deeply, feeling the reassuring weight of the sword in her hands. If she couldn’t get him to reconsider, then the least she could do was make sure he had as much backup as she was in her power to give.

She might live in a world of monsters and magic, but she wasn’t going to be a burden on anyone.

“Tch,” muttered Lust, her claws extending once more. “If you’re so eager to die, then –”

“Well said, Alphonse Elric!”

Too many things happened at once.

Her brain had barely processed the familiar voice – shock and delight flitting across her mind like butterflies – when Alphonse tackled her to the ground, and the air was pulsing with the charged quality of multiple simultaneous alchemic reactions occurring.

Then intense heat rolled over them, so hot she couldn’t even keep her grip on her sword, but even as it clattered uselessly to the floor she was enveloped from behind in metal inexplicably cool despite the scorching heat.

Maybe metal housing a human soul didn’t obey the rules of non-living metal, who knew?

“You finally got down on your knees.”

Roy. _Roy_.

His voice was like a long draught of clear cool water on a hot day, that basket of sweetmeats appearing mysteriously outside her tent every year on her birthday, a day off with no obligations just Black Hayate for company, and Riza had to close her eyes for the briefest moment in sheer _relief_.

He was _alive_.

Another burst of flame whooshed past, making her flinch in automatic response, and Alphonse curled himself around her, refusing to let her peek out from behind the wall he’d somehow erected despite missing an arm.

“Using flint as the starter, and magnifying it with a transmutation circle carved into your own flesh –” For a moment Lust’s voice was almost reverent, but then she screeched, “How can you even move with that wound?!”

Her blood ran cold, even as Roy’s voice – was it weaker? Was it in pain? She couldn’t hear, she needed to see for herself – “I cauterised it with fire! Although I almost fainted a few times.”

Riza kicked her sword closer to herself, testing the hilt with one finger. Still too hot, but she should be able to handle it if she had to. Her entire body was shaking, quivering with the need to rush out, to do _something_ , but she’d only be a liability right now.

As if hearing her innermost thoughts, Alphonse’s arm tightened around her waist.

“You said, ‘It’ll take more than that to kill me’, right?”

She ducked her head, biting her lip at the anger in Roy’s voice, so unlike his usual self. Something must have happened. Something must have triggered –

“Then I’ll just keep killing you until you die!”

A click of fingers. Another stutter of flame.

Finally, silence.

“I lost.”

Alphonse’s grip relaxed, just a fraction.

“It’s a shame, but it doesn’t feel so bad to be killed by a human like you.”

Riza peeked out from behind the wall, but she didn’t move from behind the barrier until she saw with her own eyes Lust’s body dissolving like faerie dust in an invisible breeze, something tiny dropping to the floor with a clear ringing sound. Roy would never forgive himself if he hurt her with his own flames.

It was a key.

 _Guardian of the Treasury_ , she suddenly remembered, turning it around in her fingers. Was this, then, the key to the vault?

A sickening wet gurgle made Riza’s head jerk up, and in the next moment she was by Roy’s side, barely catching him as he fell.

“Marshal!”

Roy’s eyes were half-lidded, his torn uniform shirt doing nothing to conceal the way his side blazed an angry red, a wound that she knew should have been fatal by all means, if he hadn’t forcibly sealed it shut. “You’re all right…” he smiled fleetingly, though she could see the way it pained him to dredge the smile up just to reassure her. “I’m so glad.”

“Please worry about yourself!” she choked out.

As though he didn’t hear her speak, Roy turned that beatific smile onto Alphonse next. “Alphonse, you have my gratitude for protecting her.”

“We’re going to get you to Doctor Marcoh right away!” insisted Alphonse. He was carrying his broken arm tucked under one armpit, his concern and anxiety somehow palpable even though he wasn’t capable of facial expressions. “He’s right outside, I brought him –”

“That’s right…” Roy coughed wetly “please… hurry and get Havoc to him.”

Alphonse hesitated, clearly torn. On the one hand, Riza wasn’t going to be able to carry Roy on her own. On the other, she might not be able to carry Havoc either.

“Just outside, you said?” she repeated, getting to her feet.

“Yes, I left him at the base of the stairs when I heard fighting in here,” explained Alphonse, waving his one good arm.

As she hurried off, she heard Roy ask faintly, “What’s… the situation?”

“Brother’s fighting a flying dragon when I came in,” reported Alphonse, before his voice became too faint to be heard.

Doctor Marcoh was indeed where Alphonse had said he was, though he’d almost put a knife in her before they both recognised each other. He sucked in a breath when he saw Roy on the floor, but got to work without another word.

“Just about all the fighting’s stopped,” Alphonse told her, fiddling with his broken arm. “Everyone’s too busy watching Brother and that flying dragon.”

Good. That was one thing off her mind.

“The Marshal said he and my – my father split up earlier, before they ran into Lust. The one I fought was called Pride, and I think Brother’s is Gluttony.”

Riza could count as well as any alchemist, and she didn’t need Alphonse to tell her –

“So it’s just King Bradley left.”

As though prompted by the mere sound of his name, the very earth roiled beneath their feet, trembling as though in an earthquake.

Riza and Alphonse exchanged a single grim glance.

* * *

Alphonse had rushed ahead the moment Doctor Marcoh reattached his arm, leaving Riza to make sure Roy didn’t trip over his own feet, staggering about like a drunk.

“At the end of this tunnel, you said?” the doctor confirmed.

“Yes, if you need me –” Roy began only to be interrupted by Marcoh.

“No need, no need. If all the dragons are occupied like you said, I’ll be fine on my own.” He stumbled a little when the floor shook again. “I think you’re needed elsewhere.”

Roy gritted his teeth, but it was a logical request. “Please,” he whispered.

“I’ll do everything I can.”

No one called him out on his phrasing, though Riza saw Roy bite his lip from the corner of her eye.

* * *

“What the –”

Riza couldn’t blame Roy’s uncharacteristic outburst, because she was about to say the same herself. There seemed to be a crater in the middle of the castle, extending from the throne room all the way to… she squinted, shielding her eyes with one hand – the front lawn?

She pretended not to notice the way Roy was sagging against her, just as he pretended not to notice how she was slowing her pace from the usual military brisk march. Doctor Marcoh hadn’t managed to do more than a quick patch-up, enough that he was no longer in danger of bleeding out internally, but definitely nowhere near a full recovery.

Even from so far away she could hear the clash of weapons, smell the charred remnants of earth and grass, see the flashes of sun-touched hair whirling through the occasional burst of flame like they were caught in an intricate dance.

Edward or Hohenheim, she couldn’t tell, but it could only be one of them. No one else had hair quite that stunning shade, like filaments of spun gold.

Hohenheim, she determined as they drew nearer, pretending not to notice the way Roy’s lips had gone white with pain. She wouldn’t admit it aloud, especially not with anyone else within earshot, but that blur was far too tall to be Edward.

Chains exploded upwards from the ground, twisting like living vines, looping themselves around the dragon’s wings like manacles. For a moment Riza almost believed they would hold, but with an unearthly roar the dragon went into a steep climb, its giant wings straining against the restraints until they finally cracked. Screeching in triumph, it dove for the blond man on the ground, sending an eruption of dust and debris the size of her head everywhere.

Too close, in fact.

She shoved Roy away from her, unsheathing her Zweihänder from her back within the span of a thought, and batted the closest rocks away from the two of them. Roy’s startled cry of pain made her bite her lip, but she had to trust he’d catch himself on the wall, she couldn’t wield a two-handed sword in one hand, not with her own injuries, not if she wanted to be _sure_ she could block the slabs of stone – part of the flagstones in the courtyard? They certainly looked like those – flying at them.

“Don’t give it the chance to counterattack!”

“FIRE!”

Fuery’s and Olivier’s voices rose above the din of the fray, followed by the unmistakeable swoosh of thousands of arrows.

They were almost at the doors – well, former doors – to the castle now, enough that she could pick out Hohenheim’s silhouette through the slowly-dissipating cloud of dust. He was picking himself up from the rubble, but his movements were laboured, sluggish. He must’ve been injured by the dragon’s latest attack.

“Lieutenant, I –” murmured Roy. “How far?”

_How far away was the target?_

She should have suggested he take a break, take the chance to restore some of his energy, anything but –

“Fifty – no, fifty-three metres.”

Roy gave a barely perceptible nod, leaning carefully against the wall in the shadowed alcove where the doors to the castle used to be. He breathed in, slowly, and then made a soft, irritated noise.

“I can’t see very well,” he admitted, quietly, as though Riza hadn’t already figured that out for herself. “Tell me, how much should I suppress my flames?”

That would be an issue. Riza cast her gaze around the courtyard, biting her lip as she noted the archers lining the tops of the remaining walls, currently raining a hailstorm of arrows upon the dragon, though they didn’t seem to be having much effect. If Roy didn’t modulate his flames, none of them were safe. But if he did, could they be sure the dragon would be affected? Lust had taken eight hits at full blast to kill, and she wasn’t even in dragon form – if form mattered at all, but she had to assume it did, had to prepare for the worst case scenario.

They were only going to get one shot in before they ruined their cover.

“Hold,” she murmured softly, eyes darting across the battlefield.

A glint of metal, completely out of place on the castle walls where there should’ve only been leather-clad archers, caught her attention. Someone in full armour was up there?

Alphonse’s distinct head peeked out from over the parapet, surveying the scene much as she’d been doing. His head turned slowly, sweeping across the battlefield as though hunting for weaknesses.

Taking a chance, Riza raised her arm, pointed to Roy, and then signalled, _cover_.

Alphonse’s head bobbed up-and-down and then ducked back behind the parapet. Now that she was paying attention, Riza could just barely see a flash of red and yellow through the narrow slits, and she let out a startled, relieved sigh.

If Edward was there too, then this dragon must be King Bradley.

They could end this.

“Don’t suppress them at all!” she told Roy. “Fix your aim to your twelve o’ clock and wait for my mark.”

She could feel Roy drawing in a steady breath beside her, holding up his hands patiently in the beginning stance for clap-alchemy, but all her focus was on the two Elrics hiding atop the castle wall.

“ _HOLD YOUR FIRE!_ ”

Alphonse vaulted over the wall, closely followed by Edward, who’d turned that section of the castle wall into some kind of slide, dropping them both directly above the dragon. She would have shaken her head if she’d been any less preoccupied.

 _Elrics_.

“Now!” Riza shouted, and Roy brought his hands together for a single clap, and then a snap of his fingers.

An earthen wall burst into existence like a cage around King Bradley, going up in flames like a giant oven. Bradley shrieked, but Riza pursed her lips, noting the lack of visible injury despite the intense heat. She was right. Being in dragon form did make them more impervious to heat.

“Did I hit him?” demanded Roy, slumping against the wall, panting harshly.

“Grazed him,” Riza admitted.

The other alchemists charged forwards, Edward and Alphonse in the lead, a storm of transmuted weaponry and elemental attacks. Hohenheim’s chains locked around Bradley once more, and this time the dragon was too distracted to burst free as he did before.

Not to be outdone, Bradley roared, and Edward scrambled out of the way as a gout of flame splattered the ground where he’d been standing, somehow staying alight despite there being nothing but plain stone and bare earth.

She’d believed Hohenheim when he told them about the mystical dragon fire, of course, but _seeing_ it was completely different from _hearing_ about it.

Bradley shook his massive scaly head, arrows bouncing harmless off his scales, and turned to fix one beady eye on the shadows where Riza and Roy still lingered.

“A frontal attack!” Riza shouted, even though Roy could probably see it himself. His eyes might been half-lidded from pain and exhaustion, but there was no way he could have missed a gigantic ball of flame coming their way.

Roy slapped his palms onto the wall he’d been leaning on, and Riza caught him as he staggered, the stone leaping from the walls to form a shield that flared red-hot when the drake-fire came up against it, but didn’t crumble.

“Nice work.”

“This clapping business is actually pretty useful,” Roy mused as he retracted the wall back into its original position, tongues of flame still clinging to the stone.

Edward had somehow taken those few seconds to set up a spear-launching contraption, complete with little devil decorations along the top, and was putting it to full use. Most of the spears bounced harmlessly off thick drake-hide, but he wasn’t giving up. Knowing Edward, he must be testing for weak spots.

Hopefully.

Hohenheim was adding to the chains locking Bradley to the ground, gouging deep craters into the earth to pull up more raw materials, and with each clap the bound dragon was sinking deeper into the ground.

Alphonse had somehow gotten up the castle walls again, an enlarged lance in his hands, and even as Riza watched he launched himself off the parapet, gravity lending him the strength to drive the lance directly into the space between two scales, where a few of Edward’s spears were lodged.

Bradley shrieked, an inhuman sound that reverberated through the ground, but Alphonse had already used his momentum to vault out of the way of the claw swiping through the air, causing those wicked sharp claws to instead slice through Bradley’s own hide.

There was a sudden barrage of spears launched unerringly at that spot, boring through the wound, drawing a cry of what was unmistakeably pain from the dragon.

In those scant moments Riza had taken her eyes off him, Alex Armstrong had apparently taken over operations of the first spear launcher, and was feeding it an elongated version of his signature metal arrowheads. Edward himself had managed to create another five of those catapults, tied all of them together, and was gleefully setting all of them off in quick succession while cackling like a madman.

Riza had no doubt that the next time she looked over, he’d probably have gotten it to run automatically or something equally ridiculous.

Alex slammed his fists together, punching the ground – setting off a minor earthquake in the process, but it was something everyone was used to by now – and a giant fist rose from the earth and punched the dragon in the eye once, twice, _thrice_.

A snap of fingers, unprompted, made Riza blink in some surprise. Now she could properly appreciate Hohenheim’s design, as the sunken cauldron the dragon was trapped within meant Roy was free to unleash his own flames at will without fear of friendly fire.

With another howl of outrage, Bradley struggled, but it was evident that he was rapidly weakening under the continuous onslaught.

“ _Take that_!” yelled Edward in response, and a massive burning bundle of earth-and-stone spears – built from the remnants of drake-fire still splattered here and there, Riza realised – was hurled directly into the chink in its hide.

The thickly oozing blood caught on fire immediately, and Bradley made one last bid for freedom, but Hohenheim hadn’t relaxed his guard the slightest, and the dragon was forced back into the ground, where it writhed in what seemed to be real pain.

Riza dared to take her eyes off Bradley for another moment, to see Edward perched atop his contraptions, a position that no doubt served as a vantage point, metal fingers tapping away restlessly. Alphonse had joined him, but neither Elric seemed to be doing anything else for the moment.

With a final howl that seemed to have come from the very centre of the earth, Bradley fell still. Before their eyes, his twitching body crumbled away like Lust’s did, until in a few moments there was nary but dust at the bottom of the crater where he’d been imprisoned.

Only then, did Riza relax the death-grip on her sword.

It was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was still much to do, much to rebuild, but Amestris was _free_.
> 
> Minor worldbuilding notes:  
> \- A Zweihänder is a 16th-century German warfare sword somewhat equivalent to a two-handed broadsword  
> \- The flame-blade design is a old German sword design, how could I possibly resist that for Roy XD

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://starriewolf.tumblr.com).


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